


Opening

by IamShadow21



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Casual Sex, Challenge: rontoberfest, Character Study, Chess, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Falling In Love, Family, Friendship, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV Ron Weasley, Post-Battle, Rebuilding, Ron-centric, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, safe sex, self discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-09
Updated: 2008-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron comes to a realisation about himself in the wake of the Battle of Hogwarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opening

**Author's Note:**

> Written originally for [Rontoberfest](http://rontoberfest.livejournal.com) for Team Winter, for the prompts Plangentine and Wizard Chess.
> 
> This was going to be quite different, but my original idea was proving too difficult to manage, given the short timeframe, so it turned into a generic 'Ron comes out' story instead. Apologies for the Stu; he was necessary.
> 
> Information about the properties and uses for Plangentine come from [A Beginner's Guide to Practical Thaumobotany](http://viridigitus.livejournal.com/5103.html) by Pomona Sprout (AKA [viridigitus](http://viridigitus.livejournal.com)), which is probably simultaneously one of the most geeky and awe inspiring things I've ever seen in fandom.
> 
> Thank you to [kath_ballantyne](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/kath_ballantyne), [redsnake05](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05) and [star54kar](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/star54kar) for looking over various stages of this story, and everyone who gave me advice, support and virtual hugs while I was ~~having my breakdown~~ writing.

**_o.pen.ing_** (noun)  
* an act or instance of making or becoming open  
* the act of beginning; start; commencement  
* the first part or initial stage of anything  
* an employment vacancy; an unfilled position or job  
* an opportunity; chance  
* a mode of beginning a game

 

It was surprisingly easy to disentangle himself from Hermione.

The Battle had changed things; changed how people thought and felt and reacted. For Ron, that meant a sudden jolt of perspective. For all that Fred had been far too young to die, he could certainly never have been accused of having lived cautiously, or not following his dreams. His death left Ron troubled in a way that couldn't be explained by grief, depression or shock. What Ron felt was anxiety and fear.

He lay awake at night, while Harry tossed and turned restlessly in the other bed, and he could see the future stretched out before him. Engagement. Marriage. Children. Hermione's frame softening with curves, her eyes crinkling in the corners into laugh lines. A shared bed with the woman he felt closest to in the world that he wasn't related to by blood.

It should have seemed idyllic. It didn't. All he could think of were the things he'd have to hide; to suppress. 

The Quidditch magazines - and other, less ambiguous publications - that he kept hidden for the sole purpose of revisiting time after time with his cock in his hand and his heart in his throat.

The way that her kisses were sweet and tender, and holding her close was thrilling, but the idea of anything much more involved made him feel a little sick.

The fact that he was drawn to her strength and her will and her aggression, but that it was physically impossible for her to dominate him in the way he'd been fantasising about since he first heard whispers of the _possibilities_ in crude, after-lights-out dormitory conversation.

One night, while Hermione was in Australia, Ron had a vision of his potential future that made him sick and anxious. He imagined himself, at his dad's age, hunched over a dirty magazine in the garden shed, getting more satisfaction from a sad, solitary wank than gentle, loving sex with his wife. He saw himself covertly eyeing handsome young wizards in the stores in Diagon Alley, occasionally meeting their eyes, and maybe getting some sort of signal, but never, ever having the courage to nod and follow, because he loved his wife and he could _never_ do that, even if those nameless strangers crept into his fantasies later. He envisioned himself, prosperous and surrounded by family, but forever unfulfilled because _none_ of these people knew him, really.

For weeks, it wouldn't leave him alone. He took to ferociously de-Gnoming the garden and weeding the vegetable patch at strange hours, doing anything he could to try and ignore it. It wasn't enough. By the time Hermione was due to return, everyone at the Burrow was worried about Ron, and Ron himself had come to an inescapable conclusion. He couldn't do it. He couldn't be that sad man with the magazine who always felt guilty for wishing his wife wasn't a woman at all.

He also knew that it would be virtually impossible for him to muster up the courage to tell her... and how low the chance of him leaving with his skin intact was if he _did_.

Fortunately, Hermione was... Hermione. She had to have a plan. She had to have a _schedule_. She had to have the next ten years of her life mapped out in colour-coded order. Before she'd been back a week, she'd turned up at the Burrow and pulled Ron aside one afternoon for a Talk. A Talk about futures and priorities and commitment and lots of other big words loaded with rather frightening connotations that made his head spin.

"So what I _suppose_ I'm asking," Hermione finally said after talking for twenty minutes straight, "is whether you see 'us' as being something you feel you could commit to, or whether you'd rather just be friends, and see how we feel at a later date."

Ron had a terrible moment of weakness. She was looking at him with that sharp stare, the one that made him feel like she knew _everything_ there was to know in the whole world. When she looked at him like _that_ , he felt about an inch tall. He opened his mouth to say something. Anything would be better than nothing at all...

"IthinkI'mgay," he mumbled, all in a rush.

...except maybe that.

She blinked, slowly, blankly, and he was terribly, terribly frightened she'd ask him to repeat himself.

"Oh," she said.

Ron sat very, very still, theorising wildly that maybe the canaries wouldn't attack so violently if they thought he was a statue.

"Oh," Hermione repeated, still not reaching for her wand. She looked stricken, and Ron suddenly felt incredibly guilty.

"I'm sorry," he said hopelessly.

His apology had an instant effect. "Don't _ever_ say sorry about that!" Hermione snapped, quite ferociously. "I don't know what you've heard about Muggles and Muggleborns, but lots of them think it's _perfectly natural_ ," she said, her eyes glittering suspiciously brightly. " _Wonderful_ , even! You should be proud! Proud of who you are!"

"Right, proud, yes," Ron agreed hurriedly, nodding violently, as Hermione searched her pockets for a handkerchief and blew her nose, turning her head away from him. "Are you all right?"

"Fine!" Hermione said, her voice high and slightly artificial. "Am I the first person you...?"

"Yes. Well, um, sort of. Ginny, er, found out. Worked it out. By herself," Ron admitted.

"Recently?" Hermione asked. 

There was a tone in her voice Ron couldn't identify, but he decided that he wasn't in any kind of position to think up a plausible lie. Not that Hermione ever believed his lies anyway.

"Fourth Year," he admitted, wincing.

Now it was Hermione who was statue-like. 

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

" _Don't apologise!_ " Hermione reprimanded him. Ron flinched back, sure she was about to attack, but instead, she leaned forward and gave him a quick, awkward sort of hug, before saying, "Thank you. It must have been difficult for you to share that with me. I'll always be your friend." 

The words had a strange sort of rhythm to them, as though she'd rehearsed them, or had read them in a book somewhere and was repeating them verbatim. Ron didn't doubt that if there was a book somewhere in the world that mentioned how you should react when your boyfriend came out to you, Hermione would have read it. Maybe not because she thought she'd ever _need_ it, but because she absorbed knowledge, sponge-like, from every printed page she happened across.

"Thank you. I will be, too. Your friend, that is," he replied, clumsily reaching out and patting her hand.

"Wonderful; that's wonderful," Hermione responded, smiling broadly but sounding slightly hysterical. "Do you know where Ginny is?"

Ron was thrown off balance by the sudden shift in conversation. "Her room, maybe?" he speculated.

"Thank you. Excuse me," Hermione said abruptly, and was gone and halfway down the stairs before Ron could even open his mouth to say another word.

Less than a minute later, Ron heard the distant roar of an argument begin, before the sound was abruptly cut off by a Silencing spell of some sort. At dinner, Hermione kept smiling supportively across the table until it unnerved him, though her eyes were puffy and red. She was sitting beside Ginny, their epic battle apparently resolved without bloodshed. 

Ron was almost afraid to look his sister's way, but when he chanced a glance, she rolled her eyes at him dramatically, showing him exactly what she thought of his tact, timing and diplomacy in his handling of the whole matter.

He shrugged infinitesimally and winced, as if to say, _Well, how else_ could _I have done it?_

Ginny shrugged a little, too, looking heavenwards, and Ron didn't need Legilimency to understand. _No idea, but I would have managed something a bit better than_ that!

The small smile she shot him as she passed him the potatoes was clear as a bell, too. _Eat. Mum's watching you, and if you don't, you're going to end up being force-fed_ another _dose of Pepper-Up._

Ron nodded, obediently piled his plate higher, and began mechanically shovelling food into his mouth. Once he focussed completely on the task at hand, the meal was over surprisingly quickly, and all he had left to worry about was how to tell most of his family that he wouldn't be toeing the family line of abundant procreation.

And Harry. 

Harry, whom he'd had a lingering and guilty crush on for a number of years.

Harry, who was happily and hopelessly heterosexual, and dating Ginny with the enthusiasm that only a year apart fighting Dark Wizards could engender.

Bugger.

***

Ron knew something was up when Harry tapped politely on the door for entrance the following afternoon. The door of their _shared_ bedroom.

They _never_ knocked. 

They'd spent six years sharing a dormitory with three other boys and a handful of summers and Christmases tripping over each other's boots and pretending to be asleep when they heard each other wanking. Knocking was a nicety that had quickly become redundant.

"Ginny told you," Ron said shrewdly.

Harry blushed and looked down at his shoes.

Ron tried not to think how fetching that was; especially in combination with the fact that Harry was still dressed in his Trainee Auror robes. He wondered at his own strange, unnatural calmness, but at the same time, he knew it was all right. If Harry had been violently opposed to his sexual orientation, he would have entered the room, wand a-blazing, and tested one of those nice new curses he'd learnt in Auror Training.

Or he'd still be in Ginny's room, Petrified and propped against the wall until she gauged he'd calmed down enough to be rational. Ron had been there before, himself, that morning about a month ago when he'd inexplicably woken before dawn and realised that Harry wasn't just up already; he'd never come to bed in the first place.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry asked.

What could he say to that? _Because I fancy you rotten?_ That'd be sure to have him running for the hills. _I didn't want to lose you?_ True, but far too sentimental for anything shy of aftermaths of near-death experiences with ponds and jewellery. 

Ron shrugged. "Didn't know what to say."

Harry nodded to himself as though that made perfect sense, then came and sat down on the edge of his bed opposite Ron. The space between was so narrow that their knees bumped and brushed together.

"Hermione said that I had to tell you that I'm still your friend, but I think you'd have to be pretty stupid not to realise that," Harry said casually, but with a clear meaning of, _So, don't go thinking it, you wanker._

Ron smiled, and Harry returned it, before blushing again and clearing his throat.

"Ginny... er... said that I had to kiss you. To... um... make sure I'm dating the right Weasley. And that she'd know if I hadn't."

Ron's calmness evaporated. "She said _what?!_ "

Harry looked mortified. "I _told_ her that just because you fancied men didn't mean you'd want to kiss just _anyone_ , but she –"

"What are you blathering on about? You're not just _anyone_ ," Ron argued.

Harry was stunned. "You want to?"

" _You_ want to?" Ron countered, equally shocked.

"Well, why not?" Harry said. "You're my best mate! If I'm going to kiss a bloke, it might as well be you!"

Their voices had risen to near-shouting pitch, but now, a sudden, awkward silence fell. Their breathing sounded incredibly loud, and both of them were blushing and looking down at their knees, before each chanced a glance up. Harry gave a little, crooked smile, shuffled a few inches forward and...

Their lips met, and Ron was unable to breathe for several seconds. Harry was more assertive than he had imagined, and as their lips slowly moved against each other, Ron found himself following Harry's subtle lead. At the gentle but insistent probing of tongue, Ron opened his mouth and let Harry inside. He felt like he was drowning, and he heard a tiny, helpless sound escape his throat.

Then, all too soon, Harry was pulling away... _why was he pulling away?_ ... and Ron leaned forward a few inches to follow him, before reality crashed down on him again. He sat up straight, cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. 

"So, all right then?" Ron asked, casually, trying to hide his discomposure. He almost grimaced at the quiver in his voice.

"Not bad," Harry replied, blessedly playing along. "Bristly."

Ron ran a fingertip along the edge of his jaw, which was indeed in need of a shave. "Sorry."

Harry shrugged. "'S all right."

Ron couldn't understand how Harry could be so nonchalant. There were slightly reddish patches of skin around Harry's lips where Ron's stubble had scratched him. He wanted to lick them.

When Ron glanced up, there was a trace of guilt in Harry's eyes, and he knew that realisation had just clicked into place in Harry's mind. "I shouldn't've –" Harry began.

"No; it's fine," Ron said, hurriedly plastering on a smile. "You know now, right? That you don't like boys," he added.

"Yeah," Harry said, still looking a bit worried. "I didn't mean to..." Harry's hands twitched in his lap, as if he wanted to reach out and touch Ron, but was holding back for fear of making a painful situation worse.

"Don't worry about it," Ron said. His smile remained in place but dropped a little and became more natural, resigned.

"I... I guess I'll leave you alone for a bit," Harry said.

"Thanks," Ron mumbled, flushing. There was no point denying that he needed it. Despite the embarrassment that was threatening to overwhelm him completely, his erection was obvious, straining painfully against the constriction of his jeans. Harry would have had to have been blind not to see it.

Ron couldn't help but compare and notice that without a doubt Harry was, besides the stubble burn on his cheeks, exactly as he had been when he walked into the room.

There was no need for magazines when the door clicked shut. Once Ron lay back and he managed to pull his zipper down with fumbling hands, it took all of half a dozen strokes before he was coming hard and long. His orgasm was so forceful that it stole his voice entirely; the only sound he made was a long, shuddering sigh when the last of the tremors subsided.

Ron stayed exactly where he was for long minutes, unmindful of his state of disarray, of the splotches of semen dotting his skin, clothing and bedding, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. Ginny's message, for all of its bluntness, hadn't been cruel. She'd made her point. Harry would never, _could_ never be his. For all Harry loved him, he just wasn't interested in men. Ron knew, as much as it hurt him, that for the sake of his friendship with Harry and his own happiness, he had to stop holding on to fantasy and take his first, tentative steps into the real world.

Ron quietly put his longing for Harry behind a door in his mind and locked it away, even as he reached for his wand to clean up the mess he'd made.

***

Though the very thought scared him silly, Ron decided to come out to the rest of his family as quickly as possible. Like taking a nasty dose of medicine, he rationalised that one large gulp, swallowed quickly, was better than better than dozens of little sips.

So, at dinner one night, when Bill and Fleur were visiting and Percy popped by to talk his dad's ear off about some new and boring bit of policy, Ron did it. His mum had turned to him and asked, not so subtly, about his and Hermione's future together.

Ginny kicked him in the shin, hard, under the table, and the jolt of fury was enough to make him blurt out his admission, loudly. The other conversations, one by one, ground to a halt, and Ron braced himself for the backlash.

"'Bout bloody time," George said, through a mouthful of peas. "Pass the gravy, Gin."

"Get it yourself; you're close enough," Ginny threw back. Her lower arm was out of view under the table. Ron hoped she was just holding Harry's hand.

"George! Language!" snapped their mum, belatedly.

Bill didn't seem surprised, and gave Ron a wink and an encouraging smile. Fleur, Ron didn't chance a look at, because she still, inexplicably, made him feel dizzy if he wasn't careful. Percy appeared uncomfortable, but it was hard to tell whether that was over Ron, the meal or the Ministry. Wind and disapproval produced almost identical expressions on his face. 

The chatter began to pick up again when Molly moved on from briefly lamenting the lack of future grandchildren, to proposing that Ron and his hypothetical future bondmate should adopt, so that they wouldn't miss out on being parents. Apart from a later, less public conversation where his parents both assured Ron they loved him and his mother made him promise to bring any nice boys he met home to meet them; that was that.

***

When George offered Ron a job (board included), it wasn't that difficult a decision to make to move to London. The Burrow was feeling a bit small, these days, and even now that Ginny had returned to Hogwarts, Ron was more likely to see more of Harry living out of home than in it. It was true that Harry had been spending most nights in Ginny's room, sneaking back upstairs only when it was close to dawn, but the rest of the time, he was training from dawn until dusk. Even if Harry only had an hour free for lunch when he could visit Wheezes and complain about the bruises he'd got sparring and the paperwork he had to complete in triplicate, it would be more interaction than Ron had had with him of late.

The other motivation was much less about friendship, and more about needs that Ron wouldn't have admitted to not terribly long ago. Sex. Men. Other wizards who felt the same way, had those same urges. Ottery St Catchpole was tiny, even if you included the Muggles. It didn't have much of a _day_ life, let alone a nightlife, and certainly nothing to offer a young gay wizard looking for his first sexual encounter.

Ron (with a small degree of guilt) forestalled his mother's arguments about him moving out of home by taking the rather Slytherin approach of telling her he thought George needed the company. After that, she didn't argue. In fact, she virtually pushed him out the door with his old school trunk packed full of his things and a picnic basket containing a ridiculous amount of food.

Ron's new room had the air of having been hastily and haphazardly cleaned.

"Lee was supposed to take the last of his things a week ago, so if you find anything good, you can keep it," George said, with a casual wave of his hand. "Dinner's whenever you like and whatever you can make without burning the place down, or the place on the corner does a great curry for cheap. If you come in after midnight, be as quiet as you can, and if you bring back company, make sure he doesn't touch anything on my workbench. And use a Privacy Charm, for Merlin's sake, or I'll get up and hex you."

Ron tried not to blush and failed abysmally, which made George grin wider than ever.

"Oh. You'll need these, too." George whistled sharply, and with a jingle, two bunches of keys zipped towards him through the air. He caught them neatly. One he pocketed, the other he tossed to Ron. "They're charmed to recognise me right now, but we can reset the spell once you're unpacked. Then they'll only work for you, and if you lose them, so long as they're not far away, they'll find you."

"Clever," Ron murmured, examining the ordinary-looking keys.

"Fred's idea," George said. "We kept losing them when we first moved in. You want a cuppa?"

"Yeah, ta," Ron answered, bending to flip open the lid of his trunk.

Even once he cancelled the shrinking spells on his things, they didn't do much to fill the room. It wasn't huge, but it was still about half again the size of his bedroom back at the Burrow. That first night, unable to settle because of the noise filtering in from the city outside, Ron listened to the rushing sound of his own breaths echoing off the bare walls and pretended he wasn't alone and miles from home.

***

It was a week before the worst of the homesickness wore off and Ron slept through the night, two weeks before George was satisfied Ron could work the till without being babysat and corrected every five minutes, and three weeks before Ron went looking for other wizards like himself. It wasn't that he didn't know where to go, or whom to ask. Wizarding London wasn't huge, after all, and the place in question didn't try to hide what it was. You could ask just about any witch or wizard on the street about pubs in Britain, and they'd tell you the same thing; The Leaky for accommodation and good food, The Three Broomsticks for excellent drink, warm atmosphere, and the lovely landlady herself, and The Dizzy Niffler for those looking for someone of their own persuasion. He was just incredibly nervous about what he might find when he _did_ go, and what that might tell him about himself.

George rolled his eyes when Ron emerged from his bedroom.

"What's wrong with it?" Ron asked, defensively.

"Nothing; if you're trying to pull Percy," George retorted. "Mess your hair up a bit, and untuck your shirt."

Ron glared, but followed his older brother's advice. If nothing else, it made him feel a little less like he was visiting his Auntie Muriel. He hadn't wet-combed his hair into an off-centre part for years, and it did make him look a bit of a dick.

"Take my cloak," George advised.

"It's too short for me," Ron complained.

"So's yours, and mine doesn't have Plangentine sap stains down the front," George pointed out, fairly. "You haven't cleaned it since we gathered them last week."

Ron winced. "Forgot about that."

"Snuggle up to anyone when you're wearing it, and you'll just send him to sleep. That is, if you don't nod off first." George's smirk that implied he thought the idea highly amusing.

Ron shrugged on George's cloak grumpily. "Why you can't just _buy_ them like everyone else, rather than making me stomp about in some mucky field in the moonlight, I have no bloody idea."

"The fresher they are, the more effective they are. That, and all the local apothecaries charge a ridiculous amount for something I can get for free, 'stomping about in the moonlight', as you say," George replied, with a true businessman's rationale. "We use them in the Fainting Fancies, the Daydream Charms and about half a dozen other big sellers. I'm not going to pass on all my profits to someone else because I'm frightened of getting my shoes a bit muddy. Have fun. Don't forget your keys."

Ron gave George a half-hearted rude gesture, whistled for his keys, and left. 

Despite feeling like a bag of nerves inside, his feet were apparently eager, because before he knew it, he was pushing open the door to the pub and stepping gingerly inside.

It wasn't what he expected.

Mind, Ron didn't really know _what_ he'd expected; just that what he _didn't_ imagine was that it would just look like a normal pub with normal people in it. He ordered a pint of Dumnonii Old and nursed it; watching the people coming and going, talking and laughing. The familiar act of drinking relaxed him, and the fact that he wasn't instantly surrounded by guys offering sex, though mildly disappointing, was actually an incredible relief.

"Another?"

Ron suddenly realised he was daydreaming, clutching his empty pint glass. 

"Yes, please," Ron stammered, surrendering his glass and fumbling for his coin purse. 

"New, aren't you?" the witch said, shrewdly.

Ron flushed and nodded. "Am I that obvious?" he asked, ruefully.

"You're polite," the witch replied, setting his drink in front of him. "People quickly forget their manners around here," she added, in a louder voice, as she turned to drop Ron's Sickles in the till. A young man sitting a little further down the bar heard, and laughed aloud. Ron turned to look. The man caught his eye and winked, and Ron blushed deeper still. 

"You don't want him," the witch said, her eyes on the young man, her lips quirked up in an affectionate smile. "Nothing but trouble, and he'll never Owl you, no matter what he promises." The young man laughed again, and raised his glass to her. She eyed Ron up and down. "Unless that's what you're looking for, of course. Then, by all means, grab him, or he'll be off with someone else in the next half an hour."

"I don't know what I'm looking for," Ron admitted, staring down into the murky depths of his beer.

"Look over on the notice board, then," she said, jerking her chin at a section of the wall that bristled as thick with sheets of colourful parchment as a Knarl did with spines. "You're sure to find something over there that interests you."

He stammered his thanks, and wandered over to the wall with his pint, trying to make sense of the chaos. Once he got close enough, some of the notices started to talk all at once, adding to the confusion. The health notices from St Mungo's got pride of place, he saw. All the smaller notices crowded round the edges of them, but never overlapped them. He wondered if it were some kind of charm, or simply politeness. They had bold slogans designed to catch the eye, and were obviously tailored to the Niffler's regular clientele. _Use Protection Every Time, Because Chlamydia Isn't Charming_ , advised one. _Just a Flick of a Wand = Safety For You and Your Partner_ , informed another.

The smaller pieces of parchment were much more casual, personal affairs. Social groups, fundraisers, people buying or selling things. One wizard was looking for a lodger who wasn't allergic to Kneazles; another was seeking a travelling companion for a pilgrimage to all the Sacred Springs in Wales. 

Then, of course there were the _personal_ personal notices; the ones that made the tips of his ears pink up. Like Rudy, who by his own description was _25y.o., 6' tall, 8"_ and _seeking 20-35y.o. to ride me rough and love me tender_. A Cornish business was selling toys that Ron was pretty certain weren't intended for children (the product list included whips and manacles), and there were pamphlets, free to take, that for some odd reason had a list of addresses of cottages around London 'for those who want to try a non-magical experience!' Ron didn't know why a brochure for a bunch of little Muggle houses should feel ever so slightly seedy, but it did, and he hastily put it back when it quivered in his hand and moaned softly at him with what was clearly a male voice.

He was beginning to despair of finding anything when a small, unobtrusive flyer caught his eye. Relieved, Ron reached for the Self-Inking Quill hanging on a string and grabbed a spare scrap of parchment from the pad at the bottom of the notice board, and scribbled down the time and place.

***

"You're early!" someone barked, making Ron jump, comically. "You can help me set up."

Ron thought it was safer to obey, and meekly helped unload the boards and boxes of pieces from the trunk at the back of the room. The old man reminded him a little too much of some of the other formidable characters he'd met in his life, like Alastor Moody. 

The old man's name was Hugh, Ron soon found out. Hugh had rheumatism and a bad cough from smoking a pipe 'since he were nine year old'. Hugh thought young folks these days had no respect, that the _Daily Prophet_ printed 'a load o' rubbish', and that 'those fools at the Ministry' shouldn't be so much as allowed to choose what pair of socks they should wear in the morning. Hugh was all bluster and no bite, rather like a dog who would growl at you when you walked by but couldn't be bothered to move enough to nip you, and by the time the rest of the group started to arrive in dribs and drabs, Ron rather liked him.

When Hugh soundly beat Ron after a hard-fought game that several others crowded round to watch, Hugh decided he liked Ron, too.

***

The young man at the Niffler who 'never Owled' was called Sebastian. He was light hearted, funny, charming, and completely uninterested in anything that hinted at commitment.

After a couple of weeks visiting the Niffler for a pint, Ron decided that that was all right by him since he was still more than half in love with Harry anyway, and he really, desperately, wanted to get laid. Hormones eventually won out over nerves, and he managed to shyly ask, one evening, if he could buy the other man a beer.

"White wine," Sebastian corrected, and Ron bought him one. They had time for ten minutes of awkward, introductory chit chat while they finished their drinks, and then Sebastian suddenly asked, "Your place, or mine?" and Ron's mind went a bit blank with panic and he answered "Yours" because he really didn't think he could lose his virginity with George on the other side of the wall, tinkering with his latest creation, no matter how good his Silencing Charms were.

The flat was dark, and Ron didn't see much of it. Sebastian just led him by the hand through a gloomy corridor and living room. In the bedroom, Sebastian lit a lamp that glowed dimly rather than providing much real illumination. Ron hovered in the doorway, unsure of what to do.

"Ever done this before?" Sebastian asked, starting to methodically strip off his outer layers of clothes.

Ron shook his head, eyes wide, certain that if he tried to speak, his voice would betray his anxiety.

"We'll go slow, then," Sebastian said. "You've not got anywhere to be, do you?"

Ron shook his head again.

"Even better," Sebastian said with a crooked grin.

It was a long, eventful, enlightening night. Ron learned there were some things he liked, others he didn't, and some that he warmed up to after a bit of experimentation and persistence. Some parts of it were uncomfortable, or downright painful, but Sebastian seemed to know when to stop, when to change angle, and when to keep going but start caressing him elsewhere to distract him or help him relax. It wasn't as intimate as it could have been with a partner he knew well and was interested in, but Sebastian was kind and attentive, and patient with his fumbling attempts at reciprocation. Ron Apparated home a couple of hours before dawn; exhausted, a little bruised here and there, and filled with a soul-deep languor that made him feel like grinning in a rather lazy, idiotic fashion.

It was probably the grin that gave him away. Whatever it was, George figured it out pretty much immediately, and spent the whole next day, nudging him and winking and threatening to accidentally-on-purpose spill the beans about his lack of virginity that night when they went to dinner at the Burrow. Ron would have likely been annoyed if he hadn't spent the time blushing and feeling kind of smug and dropping into inappropriate daydreams. 

Harry guessed, too, but Ron suspected Ginny was actually the one who clued him in, yet again.

"What's it like, then?" Harry asked in an undertone, when they found themselves alone, upstairs, well away from Molly's sharp ears.

"Brilliant," Ron replied. "A bit messy though."

Harry's eyes widened in alarm.

"Not like _that_ ," Ron shuddered. "Just sort of slimy, and sticky, and wet in unmentionable places. Especially afterwards."

Harry looked greatly relieved. "Sounds just like real sex," Harry said, nodding, with a bit of a leer.

Ron felt a flutter of unhappiness, deep in the pit of his stomach. "Don't want to hear about it, mate. Remember?" he warned, holding his hand up. "As far as I'm concerned, all you do is cuddle."

Harry pretended to look scared at Ron's mock-menacing tone. "She'll protect me," he countered, then laughed.

Ron laughed, too, but late that night, the remembrance of that exchange ate away at his remaining elation like acid. Ron just couldn't forget the way that Harry had casually dismissed the validity of his experience with a sentence, without even realising that he'd done it.

***

After Sebastian, there was Carl, and after Carl, there was Cameron, and after Cameron there was Robert. He lasted for a couple of weeks because the sex was fantastic, but he turned out to be a bit weird, so Ron backed away from him slowly then ran as fast as he could in the other direction, so to speak.

Then, things were quiet for a while until Ron met Arvind, who was lovely. He was also in Britain to meet the girl his family had arranged for him to marry, and had no intention of calling it off because of a little thing like his own homosexuality. Ron was with him for three bittersweet, chaotic months; three months of meeting in secret, and hiding that he was in a relationship at all, for the sake of Arvind's upcoming marriage. George knew, of course, but gave up offering advice and opinions after being told one too many times by Ron to mind his own bloody business. Inevitably, the end was messy and painful. 

Looking back, Ron felt that maybe he could have handled it better had he been able to comprehend the cultural and traditional importance behind Arvind's commitment, but it was outside of his understanding, and one of the things he said in anger wounded his lover a lot more deeply than he'd meant it to. Arvind left Ron and George's flat in tears, wouldn't return Ron's Owls, and the next thing Ron knew, Arvind's name had appeared alongside Padma Patil's in the _Daily Prophet_ 's 'Weddings' section.

George took Ron out, got him very drunk, poured him into bed afterwards and tended his hangover the next morning, all without cracking one joke or saying 'I told you so'. Ron processed the next four batches of Stinksap they received as a kind of unspoken thank you, and for the sake of his own heart, decided to give The Dizzy Niffler a miss for a while.

At the ripe old age of twenty, Ron decided that sex and love and relationships were just _too much work_. He'd rather stick with something that made sense.

***

It was inescapable. As the sands sifted through the hourglass next to him, Ron thought through all the possible moves in his head one last time, heaved a sigh, and told his king to concede.

"Good game," his opponent said, smiling and offering his hand for Ron to shake over the board, while the pieces picked themselves up and dusted each other off.

Ron took it, and grinned back, ruefully. "Yeah, it was."

"You'll wipe the board with me next time," the man assured him, his eyes twinkling. "I can tell."

"You'd better believe it," Ron agreed, beginning to tuck the pieces neatly back into their box.

The man lingered, before hesitantly asking, "Do you want to go for a coffee, or something? The cafe 'round the corner is open late."

Ron's face fell. "I have to go home," he said. "I have things... work. I have work tomorrow."

"All right, then," the man replied. "See you next week."

"See you," Ron replied, keeping his eyes on the pieces in his hands.

As the man walked away, Ron watched him sidelong until the door closed behind him.

The man's name was Robin. He was relatively new to the chess club, and Ron had found him to be a challenging opponent. He was twenty five, dark-haired and hazel-eyed, and had a light tan from spending summer somewhere warmer than London. He was also not engaged, was comfortable with his sexuality, and, as far as Ron could tell, not crazy.

Ron also wasn't ready for a relationship.

Every couple of weeks, after they played, Robin would politely ask him for coffee, or to The Dizzy Niffler, or something else equally non-threatening and appropriate for two friends with a shared interest to do to wind down after several hours of intense strategy and competition.

Every time, Ron would make a weak, transparent excuse to get out of it.

Every time, Robin would accept his refusal politely and leave without pressuring him.

Every time, it got harder for Ron to say no.

It wasn't that he needed sex. He'd reverted back to his old wanking habits, minus the guilt, and found himself satisfied enough to get by. It wasn't that he needed a friend, either. He was closer to George than he'd ever been, and Harry had been on leave over the last few weeks (mainly because Ginny had finally finished her NEWTs and was home from Hogwarts), and they'd knocked about together, talking Quidditch and going out into Muggle London a few times on day trips for a lark.

Why, then, was he apparently developing a stupid, adolescent crush, right when he didn't want to?

Ron decided that he wasn't having it. The next time he turned Robin down, he looked him in the eye as he did so, and ignored the little needle of guilt and regret that pricked at his conscience.

***

"You _didn't_ ," Ron said, disbelievingly.

"I did," said George, utterly without remorse, as he drowned his chips in vinegar.

"You had _no right!_ " Ron began, feeling his face flush with heat as anger battled mortification within him.

"I liked him," George commented, blithely unconcerned at his younger brother's impending meltdown. "He had the balls to come into my own shop and suggest that I was working you too hard and that you needed a break. Since when do I make you work evenings, by the way? I could have sworn I've been trying to push you out the door every night for the past six months."

Mortification won, and Ron's anger died back to a resentful simmer. "I hate you," he muttered.

" _You_ need to get laid," George said authoritatively, pointing a chip at Ron like an accusatory finger. "I did you a favour."

"I'm _fine_ ," grumbled Ron.

"You're a miserable wanker who does nothing but work, play chess, eat curry and look at dirty magazines," George declared.

"So're you," Ron retorted.

"Yes, but at least I _try_ to get my leg over on occasion, and when I can't, I make a date with the lovely Seraphima," George replied.

"She's a prostitute," Ron said, by his tone implying that she didn't count.

"She likes me," George said with a sunny smile. "She calls me 'an 'ero'. Makes me feel all manly."

Ron snorted. "You pay her. She'd say anything you liked."

"She gives fantastic head," George said. "When was the last time someone other than you touched that sad, lonely willy of yours?"

Ron couldn't remember. "A while."

"And yet there's a good-looking sort who's apparently been sniffing around you for months, and you've been pushing him away." George shook his head and clucked his tongue, before stuffing another chip in his mouth. "Y're a disgrace," he declared around it.

"If you think he's good-looking, then _you_ go out with him," Ron muttered mutinously.

George feigned indignation. "I'd never do that to you, little brother. He's all yours."

"Yeah. I know," Ron said morosely.

"Eat your chips. They're getting cold," George advised.

***

That Thursday, Robin lingered, helping Ron to pack away the chess sets and straighten tables and chairs. Before long, there was nothing more to do than to put out the lights and close the door, and he and Robin were left watching each other with a kind of awkward anticipation.

"Coffee?" Robin asked at last.

"All right," Ron agreed, nervously.

The coffee was bitter but hot. Ron added an obscene amount of sugar and milk to his to make it palatable. Robin sipped as his as it was, watching Ron with something like amusement.

"Do you want something else? If you don't like it-"

"It's fine," Ron said quickly. "I just don't drink it very often, that's all." He took another mouthful to reinforce his words, and wished he hadn't. It sat badly in his anxious stomach. An uneasy silence fell.

"You've got a good brother," Robin said finally. "He's very protective of you; you know? Put me right in my place."

"He did?"

"He said that you'd been through a bit of a rough time... No details," he added hastily, when Ron's jaw clenched spasmodically. "He just told me I needed to treat you gently, and go at your pace, and not promise you anything I wasn't prepared to give. And then he told me what he'd do to me if I _didn't_."

Ron glared down into his horrible coffee, feeling utterly humiliated at his brother's interference. He was an adult, damn it. He could find his own relationships. If he wanted to, that is. Which he didn't.

"I told him that wouldn't be a problem, seeing as what I'm looking for mostly is a friend," Robin said, calmly taking another mouthful.

"Why would you need a friend?" Ron asked, wincing when he heard how harsh and suspicious he sounded. "Sorry."

"I don't know many people in Britain," Robin said, ignoring Ron's hostility. "I moved here for my job, and apart from my co-workers and the people at the chess club, I'm pretty much on my own."

Ron blinked in confusion. "But you're English."

Robin laughed aloud with pleasure. " _Je suis français aussi_ ," he said, the foreign syllables rolling off his tongue with effortless fluency. His eyes sparkled, and Ron felt a flutter inside that he attempted vainly to quash. 

"I'm a mongrel," Robin clarified. "My father was from Oxford; he was a lecturer in the University there. My mother was a Muggle-born witch from Toulouse. She came to England to study. They fell in love, had an affair, had me. It was quite the scandal." Robin related the circumstances with a mischievous smile, as though it were a particularly juicy bit of gossip. "We lived in Oxford until I was nine. My mother was homesick, so my father found work close to her family. By the time I finished Beauxbatons, Britain was on the brink of war, and it was not safe to return, for any of us."

Ron didn't want to talk about the war. "You don't sound French," he commented, for lack of anything else to say.

"We spoke mainly English at home. My father's French was always poor, and my mother's English was excellent. I spoke French at school, though. And with my grandparents, always. They could not speak English, and considered me very rude if I spoke it in front of them." Robin drank down the dregs of his coffee, before studying Ron for a moment. "I really do just want a friend right now, you know," he said, his expression earnest.

"And later?" Ron asked. He didn't look up, focussing instead on the patterns he was creating and erasing with his fingertip in a pile of spilt salt.

Robin waited a breath before answering. "When later comes, we just do what feels right; what feels comfortable. For both of us."

"All right, then," Ron answered softly.

***

They were friends.

They met at cafes, where Robin drank his coffee black and Ron drank tea with lots of milk, and they both shared a slice of whatever the cake of the day was. They played chess, both at the club, sober, and the flat above Wheezes, slightly drunk; Ron on beer, Robin on red wine. 

Robin was dragged to a Cannons game by Ron, and was politely bemused by the whole thing, but wore an orange scarf and cheered whenever Ron did, because it made Ron happy. 

Ron was taken to the theatre in Muggle London by Robin, and was openly baffled by a play that turned out to be much more surreal and experimental than Robin had predicted. When they walked out, Ron struggled to find something to say that didn't make him sound ungrateful or stupid. Robin assured him he was almost as confused as Ron was, and that they'd go to something panto next time, because Ron would enjoy it far more. They did, and Ron loved it.

Ron relaxed slowly, by degrees; dismantling the walls he'd built up around himself. Even Harry (whom he'd only seen six times in as many months, since he'd transferred to Caernarfon to be closer to Ginny) noticed the difference.

"You're happier," Harry commented. "You laugh more than you did, and when you do, it sounds like you mean it." He sounded pleased, but also slightly wistful, and almost jealous.

Ron took Harry down to The Dizzy Niffler that night and got him very drunk to try and reassure him that he was still his best mate. Sebastian saw the opportunity to add Harry Potter to the notches on his bedpost, and Ron giggled into his pint at the expressions crossing Harry's face as Sebastian whispered dirty things in his ear.

"Do you need to sit down?" Ron offered, still grinning broadly, when Sebastian drifted off in search of easier prey.

Harry grabbed his drink and took a long, fortifying swallow. "He said he had a... in his... and that it..." He blushed violently and drank again.

Ron couldn't help himself. "He does, and it's good," he said casually, with a smug smile.

Harry's jaw dropped. "You didn't! With _him?_ " He swung around to take another look, but failed to find Sebastian in the crowd.

"He was nice. You could do much worse if you ever decided you were interested," Ron said. There wasn't the longing behind it that there would have been years ago, just gentle, affectionate teasing.

"He really had a thingy in his wotsit? And you... er..." Harry finished with a vague hand gesture; obviously unable to get past the reality of penile piercing and its potential benefits for both partners involved in the act of gay anal sex.

"It's charmed to vibrate, too," Ron added wickedly, timing his words just right so that Harry snorted beer out of his nose.

***

The weather grew cold, damp and miserable, and the shops along Diagon Alley became brighter, more colourful and more vibrant, and none more so than Wheezes. George kept saying that it was their busiest Christmas season since opening, and Ron could well believe it. They'd put on three extra staff just to pack and wrap. Whole lines of products were sold out completely, and George and Ron were up late every night, working desperately to fulfil demand and get every Owl order sent out by no later than Christmas Eve.

Though George wouldn't let them be involved in the actual creation of the products, an assortment of people showed up in the evenings to help lighten the workload. Lee Jordan turned up more than once with a half a dozen mates from WWN, Arthur was a regular feature, helping for an hour or so most days, and Molly supplied enough food for a small army.

Robin, who was already on holiday from his job at Cleansweep, hardly seemed to go home at all. He'd appear half an hour before Wheezes closed, then sit and package and address one order after another, on and on, until they'd realise he'd been silent for a while and turn to find him fast asleep, often still gripping his quill, or a ribbon in a half-tied bow.

Robin kept better notice of the condition of the hire-Owls than George did, which was an achievement in itself, given George's strong paranoia about losing one to illness or injury. More than once, Robin stopped them using an owl that wasn't up to the journey. He dragged Ron and George away from the work table when it looked like tempers had frayed to the point of drawn wands and cocked fists. Ron also couldn't help but notice he seemed to be having the time of his life.

"What's _wrong_ with him?" Ron asked George one day in a hurried whisper, when Robin was in the toilet.

"Too much curry, maybe?" George replied, baffled.

"No, not _that_. Why's he here?" Ron asked, gesturing at the piles upon piles of stock.

"Because you're daft, and he's persistent to the point of stupidity," George answered. "He's definitely your type. What are you waiting for?"

"Not ready," Ron mumbled.

"If you wait much longer, you're going to explode," George cautioned. "Plus, it's kind of nauseating watching you make eyes at each other over the Biting Baubles."

The toilet flushed, and Ron bit back his retort. Robin's smile when he reappeared was enough to make Ron descend into blushing confusion, especially when he asked what Ron and George wanted for tea, and George piped up with a request for sausages.

"Soon," George muttered to Ron, moments later, under his breath. "Before I give in and hex you together at the hips."

***

Ron blamed the brandy. It had gone down smoothly and blossomed into heat in his belly, combining with the enormous amount of food to make him loll bonelessly with his eyes half closed. He also blamed the ridiculous number of people and the proportionally small amount of seating. That was why he was sitting so close to Robin on the sofa, and why it was easier for Robin to drape his arm around Ron while Ron nestled in close with his head cushioned on Robin's shoulder.

When Ron found out that Robin wasn't going back to France for Christmas, but was instead planning a night in with the Wireless on, he felt compelled to immediately offer an invitation to the Burrow. The only Christmas he'd ever been alone had been the one at Godric's Hollow, searching futilely for Harry and Hermione in the snow. Every other had been with his family, or with his friends at Hogwarts. He couldn't comprehend spending it alone in a flat with nothing but a cat and Celestina Warbeck's voice for company.

In essence, Robin had been drawn in and absorbed into the family unit without a ripple, much as Harry had been, all those years ago, and more recently, Andromeda Tonks and Teddy Lupin. 

Molly loved Robin, because she knew how much help he'd been giving her sons, but also, because he was the first boy Ron had brought 'home'. When Arthur found out that Robin had been raised in a mostly non-magical home in France, he cornered him for half an hour asking questions about the Channel Tunnel. 

Robin and Fleur greeted each other with kisses on each cheek and a flurried exchange of French. Robin explained to Ron later that though they hadn't been part of the same circle at Beauxbatons, they'd liked each other well enough and shared a number of mutual friends. 

Harry and Robin met and shook hands politely. Harry seemed a little dazed, but that seemed to have more to do with the ring Ginny was flashing to anyone who'd look, rather than being a reaction to anything Robin had said or done. 

They'd all eaten until they were ready to burst, then drank and talked and laughed and squabbled long into the evening. Andromeda, Bill and Fleur made early escapes, carrying their exhausted children. Harry and Ginny sneaked away and returned a while later looking rumpled and flushed. For a long time, Ron drifted in and out of a pleasant doze, and tried to work out when his hand had ended up resting on Robin's thigh.

Ron and Robin stumbled upstairs at well past midnight. Molly wouldn't hear of them Apparating home after eating so much and drinking to boot, and had made up the beds in Ron's old room for the pair of them. They slipped off their robes and draped them over the old desk and chair, and kicked their shoes out of the way, under the bed, so that the walkway was clear.

The narrow space between the beds was Ron's undoing. He went to squeeze past Robin, and found himself leaning forwards, instead. Their bodies were pressed together, and Robin was warm, and he smelt like brandy and mince pies and something undeniably masculine that made Ron want to rub and touch and taste.

Robin's neck was bristled lightly with stubble that prickled Ron's cheek and lips as he nuzzled it. He planted a small kiss where he could feel Robin's pulse leaping, and Robin let out a deep sigh and curled his arms up to trail his fingertips back and forth across Ron's back. They didn't talk, and for the longest time they didn't do anything but touch and hold each other, slowly and carefully, as though a hasty act might break the moment irrevocably.

It wasn't a large movement, but tilting his head upwards to press his lips against Robin's felt like stepping off an edge and surrendering himself to an unknown fate. Once Ron had done it, though, it felt so natural that he couldn't even contemplate pulling away. The sweet, slick slide of lips and tongue elicited a pleasure so sharp within him that it was almost too much, almost painful. He felt Robin's rapid, shallow breaths against his skin, and felt the uneven rise and fall of his own chest, too. Robin's hands, running up and down Ron's back, moved a little too hastily, too clumsily, as though he was trying to hold himself back. Ron let his hands slip from Robin's hips down to his arse, and he pressed closer still, and there, there was that delicious friction. They both moaned, and it was a desperate, hungry sound.

"We should lie down," Robin whispered, all in a rush, "and put up some kind of Charm, if we're going to go any further." 

Ron swallowed, hard. His heart was hammering in his chest. "Yeah. Yeah, right." 

He fumbled for his wand and did so. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he pulled off his shirt, and lay down next to Robin on the bed he'd slept in for most of his life. Robin's hands wandered inquisitively across the newly exposed expanse of skin, and Ron bit his lip and gasped and sighed. After a few minutes, he boldly reached out and rubbed Robin through his pants, and felt a bolt of lust flash through him when Robin arched up against his hand and swore.

"I imagined this. Imagined you," Robin murmured. He was panting, and his eyes were wild and almost black, the pupils dilated with arousal.

"Me too," Ron confessed. Ron's voice had a nervous squeaky quality to it, which embarrassed him immensely, until Robin's hand moved down to cup him, too, and Ron whimpered like a puppy. 

"This is better... so much better..." Robin groaned.

Ron couldn't find the words to agree, so he just kissed him hard and fast and messily. It was enough.

***

The sex didn't change that much between them; not really.

They still played chess. They still met at cafes, and went to the Quidditch and the theatre, still tried to develop an appreciation for each other's interests outside of chess and sex. On the whole, it involved a lot of patience and empathy, which meant that both of them struggled at times, and there was more than one temper tantrum born of frustration. The physical aspect of making-up was fantastic, but the slow learning of each other's moods and sensitivities was more satisfying in the long run.

It confused Molly no end as to why Ron and Robin seemed, in her eyes, to be 'waiting'.

"We're not waiting, Mum. We're fine," Ron said in an attempt to pacify her.

"But he's in that flat, all on his own, and you're still sharing with your brother! Surely he'd like some space for himself," she countered.

"We're both close to our work," Ron explained, "and if George wanted me out, he'd tell me."

"But it's just not very _settled_ , is it, dear?" Molly persisted.

"We're settled enough, Mum. We like things the way they are," he said, and he watched the corner of his mum's mouth curve up into a reluctant half-smile, as though she _knew_ they did, but didn't want to let up just yet.

"But how about getting a nice place for yourselves? I'd still like grandchildren, you know," she added.

"Well, if we do decide to have kids, that'll be later," Ron replied. "And when later comes, we'll do what's right for the both of us. What we want. What'll make us both happy."

Molly smiled properly, this time, and her expression was one of love and pride. "Well, don't leave it too long to decide; that's all I'm saying," she said, slipping an extra slice of cake onto Ron's plate. "I want to be young enough to enjoy them."

"I know, Mum," Ron said, picking up the cake and taking a big, contented bite.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ron Origin Story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118039) by [IamShadow21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21)




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